


Before the Light

by cosmicaven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, Pre-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, Reichenbach Feels, they literally dream abt each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicaven/pseuds/cosmicaven
Summary: “I dream about Jim Moriarty, John.”“Why on bloody earth would you dream about him?”“He's the only person that I have never understood, John. He completely escapes my observations.”John pauses for a moment. “That would sound romantic, if it wasn’t so damn insane.”





	Before the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt fic, this one was 'dreams.' Short but sweet, just thought I'd reupload in case anyone liked it before I deleted my account.

John was always curious, always trying to understand Sherlock and the way his mind worked. He never thought he would quite get it, though- it seemed like one day, Sherlock would be innocently playing with a dog on the streets, and on another he would be analyzing his own heroin before he injected it. 

The detective would irritably explain time and time again the irrelevance of sleep to John, usually at three in the morning when the ex army doctor was trying to get rest, often interrupted by the dulcet tones of a violin, or of a human head being sliced. Despite his argument, though, and to the absolute loathing of the detective, he was human, and needed an occasional rest from the chaos of his analytical thoughts. It was “good for his health,” or some such trivial nonsense that the doctor seemed so tied up about, the detective would note drowsily.

It would both intrigue and confuse John, seeing the man dance about in his blue robes at four in the morning one moment, and fast asleep on the floor next to his skull in the next. So, when John asked Sherlock what the detective had dreams about, needless to say he was shocked by the answer. 

“I dream about Jim Moriarty, John.”

“Why on bloody earth would you dream about him?”

“He's the only person that I have never understood, John. He completely escapes my observations.”

John pauses for a moment. “That would sound romantic, if it wasn’t so damn insane.” 

. . . 

Sherlock supposed that no one would understand his fixation towards Moriarty. Not John, not Lestrade, not even his dearest brother, who was supposed to know everything. The detective would never indulge on the deranged ideologies of man that created the concept of soul mates, but, he thought, what other word was there? To describe the light and darkness, the yin and yan, that was Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty?

As for dreams; Sherlock, of course, rarely sleeps- about once every two days- but when he does, his mind is always entranced by the mystery that is James Moriarty. Really, there was nothing else worth dreaming about, Sherlock knew it all, but Moriarty? He didn't think he would ever truly understand the criminal, and that thought was equally terrifying as it was placating. 

And he would lie there, for hours, sometimes days on end, wandering the wings of his mind palace until the inevitable appeared beside him. The man beside him was not John, his best friend, or Mycroft, his brother. The man that would always stand at his side, the one person in this meaningless universe that could finally observe, not just _see_ Sherlock, was Jim. 

That was why Sherlock knew, to the depths of his heart to the very centre of his being, that Moriarty dreamt of him, too. 

. . . 

Every time Jim Moriarty closed his eyes he saw piercing blue-green ones. He mused that it was poetic in a very dark, Edgar Allan Poe way, this dance of death and mystique that he had put on for his detective. His dreams were like war and poetry, he was lucky to wake up with some semblance of calm. 

His employees were used to the screaming. If you had asked one of them when Jim started to shout Sherlock’s name in the dead of night, they would certainly shrug and respond that they were sure he had been doing it all his life. 

Jim was the dying light and Sherlock was the one that raged and fought against it. Jim was Lucifer, and Sherlock was Michael, no matter how hard the detective would try to deny it. In all these stories, all the little folk tales and story times that Jim saw in his dreams, they all ended the same way. 

Jim was Sherlock’s oncoming storm. Sure, John and Mycroft could play hurricane shelter, but the police could never manage to force people out of their homes to evacuate and Jim knows Sherlock’s itching to have a run into the centre of his storm. He knows because he feels it, too. And he’s ready to jump- he knows Sherlock’s ready to fall. 

Jim was convinced that the inevitability of their paths of chaos was destined to be from the moment of conception, but then again Sherlock would complain that fate was a fantastical- in layman’s terms, a load of fucking garbage. Nevertheless, he always knew when to put the kettle on for the criminal. Perhaps they would never agree, if only at the fact that a meeting between the two was long overdue. 

He could have only hoped that he was given a warm welcome. Tea, a nice performance on the violin, and maybe a nice snack- like an apple.

But before the big day he closed his eyes, drifted to sleep, and dreamt of grey rooftops, blue scarves, and ink-black guns.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @cloudheist on Tumblr and @dynamicwritin on Twitter! Kudos and comments literally fuel my soul as well, so that would be lovely :)


End file.
